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Monty thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Young ladies of marriageable age being paraded around like livestock at a county fair, forced to perform; to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny and smile while their toes were tread on. It was one thing when the upper echelons of society participated in such a custom, families like the D’Ysquiths and the Chalfonts. But it looked ever so desperate when families who only just scraped the top of the middle class attempted to take part in the aristocratic tradition.
No matter how laughable it seemed to him, he could never say no to Sibella. She had breached the subject to him one afternoon when they were on a promenade through the park. Sibella’s brother Graham, her default chaperone, was nice enough to lag behind and allow the two to converse somewhat privately. She told him that her mother’s social circle was arranging a coming out party for their daughters. Sibella knew most of the other girls who were being presented to society; although she wasn’t sure if the upper-middle class really counted as society.
There was Lizzie Carmichael, who Sibella knew would hate the attention given how shy she was, Florence Ascot, who played the pianoforte but was utterly hopeless at dancing, the MacNeil twins, who were ghastly both in personality and in fashion sense, and Lucy Chattwick, who was sixteen and had only been included because she was the Chattwick’s eldest daughter. Mrs. Carmichael, whose uncle was a Baron, and whose husband owned a successful newspaper, was the ringleader of the whole production. Sibella liked Mrs. Carmichael, admired her even. She saw her as a window into her future, the woman she could be in ten or so years. A nice house, a successful husband, a handful of charming children. What could be more desirable?
Sibella’s mother had informed her that each debutante would need an escort; a young gentleman who would lead her into the party and serve as her first dance partner. It was not a tough choice as far as Sibella was concerned. Monty was the only boy she had ever been seriously interested in. It seemed natural to choose him as her escort, rather than leave it up to her mother to make introductions and risk a terrible evening with some brute or bore.
“Me?” said Monty, not sure if he had properly understood Sibella’s request.
“Yes, you,” she replied teasingly. “Whoever else do you think I would have in mind?”
Monty mulled it over in his mind, but could not come up with a good answer to her question. It made perfect sense why Sibella would want him there, however, the question was whether she should want him there. He was certain the other girls would choose as their dates the most distinguished gentlemen they could snag. Sons of lawyers or bankers, or distant relations of nobility. It could only be assumed that a poor boy from Clapham, whose mother had to work two jobs to make ends meet, would not fit in with the crowd.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to, really,” Monty began, finding it harder and harder to get the words out as a frown grew on Sibella’s face. “Only… do you think such a party is a place for someone like me?”
“I don’t understand,” said Sibella, frowning even more, so that her brows knit together.
“Do you think I was what your mother had in mind when she asked you to choose an escort? It’s supposed to be your night, Sibella. The last thing I would want is to embarrass you.” Monty sighed, glancing down at his scuffed shoes. “Sometimes I think you forget that we’re not the same, you and I.”
“Montague,” said Sibella, a name she only used to tease him. She had stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “How long have I known you?”
“Eleven years.”
“Twelve,” she corrected. “I’ve met your mother. I’ve been to your flat. I know you deliver papers.” Monty furrowed his brows as he tried to follow her train of thought. “Do you really think I would have asked you if any of that mattered to me?” He shook his head. “It’s just as you said. It’s my night, and I want you there.”
They had agreed to meet at Sibella’s house the next Saturday to practice their dance steps. “So there’s the waltz, the two-step, and the mazurka,” Sibella explained. “Which would you like to start with?”
“Perhaps the waltz,” replied Monty. “Mother taught me how to dance it. She also taught me the polka, but I don’t think it’s very popular anymore.”
“And how does your mother know the steps to such dances?” Sibella asked.
“Now that you mention it,” said Monty, “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“So we’ll start with the waltz,” she declared, crossing to the other side of the room where the phonograph sat. They were in Sibella and Graham’s old nursery; all the furniture had been pushed aside to allow for enough room for the two to practice. She chose a cylinder with a waltz on it, turned the crank to wind up the machine, put the needle down, then rushed back over to Monty as the music began to play.
Quickly they assumed position; Sibella’s hand on Monty’s shoulder, his hand on her waist, and their alternate hands clasped together. They were a bit slow to start, but soon moved with ease. Sibella occasionally counted the triple metre out loud. He couldn’t stop looking at her, how she moved her head prettily with the dance, how her hair swayed with her, sometimes seeming to float in midair.
As the needle reached the end of the cylinder and the music stopped, Monty pulled Sibella closer with his arm around her waist and met her lips in a kiss. She leaned into it, her hand sliding up from his shoulder to the back of his neck. When they parted she glanced up at him with a coy smile. “Whatever was that for?”
“You’re a spectacular dancer, Sibella.”
She grinned. “I should hope so. I’ve been taking lessons since I was ten.” One of her hands left the back of his neck and the other let go of his hand. Monty reluctantly removed his arm from around her waist. “I simply cannot wait for you to see my dress,” Sibella said, walking back over to the phonograph. “It turns so beautifully.”
Monty watched her, admiring her grace even when she wasn’t dancing. “You could wear a sack and still look ravishing.”
Sibella giggled, picking up the needle. “Oh, Monty, don’t be so ridiculous. A sack is not at all appropriate for a coming out party.”
He chuckled at her joke. “What shall I wear?” he asked.
Sibella stopped for a moment, hand stilling on the phonograph. “I suppose you could borrow one of Graham’s old ensembles,” she mused. “We could have it tailored for you.”
The reality of their situation began to dawn on Sibella. With their difference in social class, she wasn’t sure how realistic it was for her to marry Monty. No matter how much she loved him. She wasn’t sure she had the will to marry down, even if it was for love. She could only imagine what her friends would think, her parents, her brother. Graham liked Monty, but above that he wanted the best for Sibella, which was more than Monty could offer. Suddenly, Monty being her escort became extremely important. This night might be the only chance for them to be formally recognized together.
She straightened her posture and turned back around to face Monty, feigning a smile. “Now, the mazurka.”